


Don't Follow Me, You'll End Up in My Arms

by dabblingwithwords



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blowjobs, Crime, Dealing With Trauma, Depression, Dissociation, Dissociative Episodes, Drinking, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Food mention, Found Family, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Implied Sexual Content, Language, Mental Illness, Multi, OMG wade has such a crush, Peter is so done, Pining, Rating may go up, Sarcastic Peter - Freeform, Sex Work, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, and tired, but for now, have some, i'll add tags as i go, please always check the tags, this fic has happy moments i swear to god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingwithwords/pseuds/dabblingwithwords
Summary: Peter is no longer Spider-Man. But he still wears red and blue, only this outfit is for dancing and making rent.AU where Peter is a stripper and Wade is the new bouncer in a world where being a mutant is illegal and Hostess went out of business.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining in New York. 

Peter usually doesn’t mind when it rains, but it means that the hole he tried to fix in the kitchen will reopen above the sink, his hot water won’t heat, and the draft in his room will make it feel like a cold wind is constantly blowing through. It means he’ll stand in his bathroom and scratch the blood off his hands but it _won’t leave_ and he’ll scratch harder and harder and harder and _harder_ –

Okay.

Maybe he doesn’t like the rain anymore.

 

///

 

He has a new hole in his converse. 

Great. 

He forgot to shave before his shift. 

Great. 

He hasn’t eaten all day and with his enhanced metabolism he feels like he might pass out. 

Great. 

The green mermaid is a welcoming sight. 

Peter dips into the only Starbucks in Red Hook, Brooklyn. This is the most empty he’s seen the chain in a while. It’s 11pm on a Tuesday, so that’s not surprising. The girl behind the counter, Ellie, regards him with her usual apathetic air. Her eyes _do_ light up when she seems him though, so he’ll count it as a win. 

She looks him up and down, smoky eyes radiating bemused judgment. 

“Did you jump in the Hudson on the way here?” Ellie asks, already writing his order on a venti cup. 

“Ha ha, funny,” Peter yawns, digging into his coat pockets.

He knows he stuffed a five-dollar bill in these jeans last week–oh shit, no, he gave it to that homeless man on 6 Ave outside of the Pret-a-Manger–

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Ellie whispers when Peter has only managed to pull up .25 cents, “on me.” 

Embarrassment and gratitude makes Peter’s chest tight. He puts the .25 cents into the tip jar. It’s all he has. 

“Thanks,” he says, and means it. “It’s been a long week.” 

“It’s Tuesday,” Ellie says, handing him a sausage sandwich.

“Yeah, exactly.” 

 

///

 

He’s feeling much more like a human after some food and coffee, and he ducks into the bathroom to hurriedly shave his growing beard in the dingy mirror. 

Better lighting than the club. 

He only nicks himself once, but it’ll heal by the time he’s across the street. 

Peter hates moments like these. When he looks in the mirror and wonders how he got to where he is. He doesn’t recognize himself, anymore. 

He used to have goals. 

He used to want to go to Grad school, used to have a social life, used to have a warm apartment and Tony Stark and Aunt May and–

He cuts himself again, and the sharp sting of it interrupts his daily descent into intrusive thinking. He splashes water on his face, and hopes the hot burn of it will melt out all the anxiety.

Will wash away all the blood from his hands. 

“Breathe, Parker,” he whispers, head already hurting as he rests it on the cool porcelain, “get it together.” 

If he focuses, he can hear the music from the club a block away. He digs in his pocket, hands shaking around the pill bottle. Just take two, he tells himself, no more than two. 

He swallows them dry, pockets his razor, and runs a hand through his hair. 

In thirty minutes the music won’t be unbearably loud in his skull. It’ll be a low buzz under his skin, just like everything else. 

In thirty minutes, he can just move. 

He’s missed it. 

 

///

 

“You know what I think?” Natasha hums as soon as Peter’s emerged from the dressing room. 

“What?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his tights, “That this is too much?” 

She grins, and smears a streak of gold glitter across his cheekbones. 

“I think you and I should get a drink after this set.”

She’s the smartest person Peter knows. 

“I think you’re right,” he agrees, the suppressants kicking in enough that he doesn’t feel like his head is going to split in two from all the noise, “Clint owes us.” 

Natasha winks. 

“Go get ‘em, spider.” 

 

///

 

Peter hasn’t been Spider-Man for eight months. 

He doesn’t usually miss it. 

Tonight? He misses it. 

A man in a tight fitting suit sits at a reserved table by the front of the stage. His hands are damp and clammy as they slide against the thin material of Peter’s pants.

He’s wearing sunglasses indoors. 

_If_ Peter were still Spider-Man he’d follow this man. He’d see why his spider-sense is acting up in the back of his head, a low buzzing hum that has nothing to do with the bass of the amps.

_If_ Peter were still Spider-Man he’d be curious. But Peter isn’t Spider-Man, not anymore. He _isn’t_. 

He has to remind himself that the slippery, metal poles aren’t webs. 

He has to remind himself that the people watching him aren’t panicked civilians. 

He has to remind himself, over and over, that he hasn’t let anyone die tonight. 

The strobe lights aren’t bombs. 

The neon glare isn’t Goblin’s laugh. 

The money, itching against his skin, isn’t an injury. 

He’s dancing. It's like swinging, if he pretends. 

He’s pulling down his tights. 

He’s letting men he’s seen in dark alleys touch him. 

He doesn’t know who he is, anymore. 

But in this world, does anyone? 

 

///

 

Nat doesn’t meet Peter at the bar. 

She takes a woman to the back room and leaves through the side door. Peter watches, and can feel the pills wearing off. The music is almost too loud again. He’ll have to leave soon, or suffer a terrible migraine. 

“ _Hey Clint_ ,” he signs, and the bartender notices, coming up to him. 

“Got my aids in today,” Clint answers, and taps the old Stark tech in his ear, “don’t gotta sign. I can read lips anyway.” 

Peter smiles. 

“Can I get a refill?” he asks, barely buzzed. 

“Sure,” Clint says, easy, and takes Peter’s drink to fill with two more fingers worth of bourbon, “you and Wade man…can drink anyone under the table.” 

“Who?” Peter asks, taking the glass and downing it in one quick motion. 

The alcohol will keep the affects of the pills lasting longer. Trial and error, Peter knows. 

“The new bouncer,” Clint tells him, and the bar is empty enough that he can stay and chat for a bit, “he arrived this past Sunday. Oh, you weren’t here.”

“No,” Peter reminds, “he cool?” 

Clint shrugs, scratching absentmindedly at his ear. The guy always looks exhausted, but he’s especially sluggish tonight. Peter’s not the only one having a long week. 

“I guess. He talks a lot…scary dude, to be honest. Ex- special forces,” Clint whispers, leaning forward, a glint in his eyes that Peter hasn’t seen in a long while, “his skin is pretty fucked up too. Don’t stare, if you meet him.” 

“What happened to Hank?” Peter asks, pushing his once again empty glass to Clint and signing, “keep ‘em coming”. 

“You didn’t hear?” Clint asks, and fills Peter’s glass with coke, the asshole. 

“Hey, dude, c’mon–” Peter tries but Clint just plops a cherry into the soda. 

“I know what you’re doing,” Clint says, suddenly serious, “I’m not enabling that.” 

Peter doesn’t know what to say. 

He feels annoyed, and a little peeved, because what the _fuck_ does Clint know? The guy isn’t a mutant. He’s not under watch from the government, he doesn’t have to deal with the paranoia of being tracked down. He doesn't have to clean blood off his hands every night because the nightmares _don’t stop_ and bones are _so_ breakable–

“One more shot,” Peter says, “and I’ll buy you a pizza.” 

Clint raises his eyebrows. 

“I like pizza,” is all he says before getting Peter a new glass. 

“So Hank,” Peter pushes, and Clint drinks the coke for him. 

“Right,” Clint sighs, favoring tilting his right side to Peter, “there was a fight in the back at around seven last week–”

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupts, and Clint and Peter both turn to the source, “can I get a whiskey?” 

The man, Peter recognizes. Dark sunglasses, pushed back hairline, clammy hands with Ben Franklin bills. He’s sitting three stools down, suit impeccable, and Peter can feel his eyes on him even with them covered. 

“On the rocks or neat?” Clint asks, stepping away from Peter to serve the new, and only, customer. 

“Surprise me,” the man says, without looking away from Peter. 

He’s glad he changed back into his now dry jeans and black long sleeve shirt, because the man is practically undressing him and it makes him want more layers, not less. 

“Not much of a surprise,” Peter tells the man, because staring is rude, “you want ice or not, it isn't hard.” 

Clint snorts, and drops one ice cube into the man’s drink.

Sunglasses doesn’t seem offended– if anything the little smile he gets shows the opposite. He takes the drink from Clint, passes him a twenty, and then moves to relocate right next to Peter. 

Peter’s hyperaware of how the man smells, of what cologne he uses, and how far they are from each other. 

Should he take another suppressant? 

“So,” the man begins, and if Peter isn’t on stage he isn’t working, so he doesn’t have to be nice to this guy, “I’ve seen you here a lot.” 

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, meeting Clint’s amused gaze, “you’re kinda hard to miss. You come from a tax invasion meeting?” 

“Oh, you’ve noticed me?” the man asks, clearly reading Peter’s words as compliment, and ignoring the slight insult. 

Peter signs for another shot. Adds a “ _please_ ” and “ _pepperoni?_ ” 

“You give me about a hundred a night, man,” Peter sighs, resting his chin on his hand and turning his body to face Sunglasses, “that makes an impression when most people give _five dollars_.” 

“I like you,” the man admits, blunt, “you’re the most… _agile_ dancer I’ve ever seen.” 

“Frequent a lot of strip clubs then?” Peter asks. 

He wants to leave. 

He wants to go backstage and order a damn pizza and share it with Clint and talk about video games and how much they hate the patriarchy. Not get hit on at 2am on a Tuesday–no, _Wednesday_ –with wet socks and a growing headache. 

“A few,” the man says, and leans close, “do you ever partake in the Red Rooms?” 

How’s Peter doing on rent again? 

Still behind? 

Great. 

“Yeah, sometimes,” Peter answers, trying to focus on the piece of lint in the man’s gelled back hair. 

If he concentrates hard enough, the lint will grow, and have texture, and Peter won’t have to be present for this kind of conversation. 

“What do you charge?” the man asks. 

“Depends on what you want,” Peter tells him, “I’m off the clock now.” 

The man sips his whiskey, a gold Rolex catching the purple light. 

“Blowjob,” the man says. 

Clint’s migrated down the bar, knowing this routine almost as well as Peter. Two women chatter with him excitedly, too drunk for this early in the morning, and Peter sees Clint switch off his aid. 

“Thirty,” Peter answers, unashamed, “forty if you don’t wear a condom.” 

Thanks to his powers, he can’t catch anything anyway, but if some stranger is going to be cumming down the back of his throat he’s going to charge more for it. 

“Anal,” the man says, cutting right to the chase, “for two hours, how much?” 

Peter nearly chokes on his drink. 

“ _Two hours?_ ” he coughs, almost disbelieving. “Dude, you get thirty minutes max, here.” 

“How much would you charge for two hours?” the man presses, leaning closer. 

He doesn’t know! He’s never had to calculate this before. Peter’s skin tingles, and not in a pleasant way.

“I’ll give you eight hundred,” Sunglasses says, sensing Peter’s hesitation, and taking advantage. 

And that’s rent. 

“Eight hundred?” Peter repeats, dumbfounded. “Why–”

“Like I said, I like you. And I can afford it,” the man explains and Peter remembers his Rolex and a deep dislike settles, bitter in his stomach.

Jealousy and bourbon aren’t a good combination. 

“I’m available Friday,” Peter says, not really believing the guy but wanting to see if he’ll call on his bluff, “my shift will be over at one.” 

“Friday,” the man repeats, “It’s a date.” 

“It’s a transaction,” Peter corrects. 

Sunglasses, surprisingly, laughs. 

“Yes, for now,” he says, taking one small sip of his whiskey before standing, buttoning up his jacket. 

He nods to Peter and leaves. 

And Peter downs the rest of his drink and scrapes the floor as he stands. 

 

///

 

It’s still raining. 

The bar grew crowded around three, and Clint had to call Barnes to ask him for help. 

They rescheduled on pizza. 

Peter stands, underneath the awning in the back alley, staring down blankly at the flip phone in his hands. It’s cold, his breath puffs out like white nicotine, and he’s never smoked but it would be a fitting scene if he did. 

He’s aware of the figure approaching before the footsteps even land outside, but then the back door is swinging violently open and a smarmy looking dude is being thrown, so hard, that he slams into the side of the dumpster and just kind of crumbles. 

Peter has to be _very_ mindful to not jump up onto the wall and out of the way. 

Normal people can’t do that. 

“Get the fuck up, shitstain! You were so grabby before what’s up with you now?” The harsh voice ricochets around the alley, words running through gravel and the worst kind of sandpaper. 

Peter doesn’t recognize it. 

He also doesn’t recognize the man that steps out, huge and broad, all muscle, and he’s an imposing sight, silhouetted by the red lights of the club. 

The dumpster man groans, and then throws up. 

The smell is sharp to Peter’s senses, and he almost gags right along with him. 

“I think you broke his ribs,” Peter tells the guy in the doorway, “he shouldn’t be throwing up.” 

“You’re right, he should be bleeding,” the large man hisses, shoulders twitching, almost like a phantom weight is making him itch. 

Peter would think this is just a normal bar fight, except the man’s black shirt matches Peter’s own, save for the “Security” printed on the sleeve. 

“Are you Wade?” Peter asks, pocketing his phone and kind of really needing the distraction. 

The man turns to him, and Peter can’t see the details of his face in the gloom. He’s curious about what Clint said, and hopes this kind of staring doesn’t count as rude.

“Sure,” the man agrees, “are you the protagonist?” 

Peter furrows his brows. 

“What? I’m Peter.” 

“Cool,” Wade says, “you trying to catch pneumonia?” 

“No?”

“Hypothermia?”

“No?”

“You like standing in the rain to contemplate the moral ambiguity of your violent actions, too?” 

“What? No, I’m checking my messages. And it’s too loud in there,” Peter says, feeling weirdly out of his depth. 

He doesn’t like it. 

Wade’s staring at him, his attention is unwavering. 

“You’re a stripper,” Wade says, no decorum, “the spinny one with the red and blue tights.” 

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, “you’re security.” 

Wade grins, all sharp, white teeth. 

“That I am! I’m doing a good job too, dude, I’ve already broken three different people’s noses and unclogged zero toilets.” 

“Oh…good job?” Peter doesn’t know what to say. 

He doesn’t really know how to talk to this guy. 

“You gonna stay out here?” Wade asks, “With all the trash…” 

The man by the dumpster groans. 

“…Moping?”

“I’m not moping,” Peter argues, “I’m–”

“Fighting the moral ambiguity of your–”

“Stop saying that,” Peter interrupts, headache in full swing and stomach clenching in dejected hunger, “my shifts over, I’m gonna go.” 

“If you wait another three hours I can walk ya home,” Wade says, “you look like you’re one gust of wind away from fallin’ over.” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Peter says, pocketing his phone and beginning to walk down the dark alley. 

“Is it rude if I say you have a great ass?” Wade calls. 

Peter flips him off, not looking back. 

Wade’s laugh follows him like smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: peter sleeps with a client and has a dissociative episode after. sexual content.

Peter used to listen to the news religiously. 

Especially when mutant laws were passed five years ago, and people started disappearing, _supers_ started disappearing, and Peter, selfishly, was thankful for his secret identity. Many went into hiding in Wakanda, or Russia. 

Peter wasn’t close to any of them, and now he never really would be. He remembers when May had called him after her nightshift two years ago, voice strained and panicked. 

“Peter,” she had said, “you can’t go out tonight.” 

It happened quickly. 

But really, it had been building for the past ten years. Slow enough that people online were outraged, and slow enough that no one made drastic moves for prevention. It was a matter of time. 

Peter remembers the first time he went out as Spider-Man, and a kid had tried to shoot him with his father’s gun. Peter had slinked back into his apartment, rattled and horrified, and took the bullet out with shaking fingers. 

No one, not Goblin, not Harry, not Carnage, had looked at Peter with so much hate. 

It shook him to his core. 

 

///

 

The week dragged on. 

Peter did odd tech jobs during the day whenever he could, and with the Internet ban that went into affect a year ago there was a big business for hacking people into the back sites that were still operating off the radar. 

It was good money, and Peter needed as much as he could get before rent is due next Monday. 

A man is sitting in a chair behind Peter, smoking from a fat rolled cigarette and letting the ash fall onto his stomach.

Peter’s itching to take a suppressant, to numb his senses _just enough_ so that he wouldn’t have to smell the sour twist of nicotine and the clogging feel of smoke vapors. He’s running low on them, and he has a long shift on Friday, he’ll regret wasting a suppressant on a dirty man and his crumbling cigarette. 

“You look familiar, ya know,” the man says and Peter doesn’t turn around, just keeps clacking away at the old as fuck keyboard. 

He doesn’t recognize the man, but he has a feeling the guy knows him from Red Room. 

The wedding ring on his finger catches the light. 

The room is dusty, made even more apparent by the gold beams of sun that fought their way through the plastic blinds. The guy is messy– books stacked in every corner, newspapers, maps, old junk piled high and seemingly forgotten with no order. 

“I said you look familiar,” the man repeats, and coughs. 

“I get that a lot,” Peter mutters.

These firewalls have gotten harder to navigate. Which isn’t good. Means the FBI is getting itchy and it’s never easy for anyone when the government is uncomfortable. 

The man shifts behind him and Peter’s instantly alert, hands hovering over the keys. There’s a tension in their space now, where Peter anticipates what this guy is going to do. His spider sense is a low hum. No matter what this guy isn’t a serious physical threat. Barely anyone is, to Peter, but he’d rather not be forced to throw a pervert through the wall today. He half expects the guy to start jerking off, but he just lights another cigarette and settles more comfortably in his seat and Peter keeps on clacking. 

“Done,” he says, fifteen minutes later. 

His knees hurt from where he’d been kneeling for the past thirty minutes, and he stands and relishes in the blood flow that returns circulation to his legs. 

“I’m Matt,” the guy says and holds out his hand for Peter to shake. 

He doesn’t move to get up so Peter doesn’t move to complete the gesture. He doesn’t want to touch him, anyway. 

“That’ll be $150,” Peter says, crossing his arms and trying to will his cigarette-influenced headache away. 

Matt retracts his hand but he’s still looking up at Peter, eyes lazy and roving. 

“I’ll give you another fifty if you hang around,” Matt says, and Peter’s sure that the guy thinks he looks smug and coy but he’s really just filthy and low. 

“You’re _married_ ,” Peter grits out, fingers flexing against his biceps, “I don’t fuck people in relationships.” 

Matt raises a disbelieving eyebrow and lets out a barking dry laugh, made rougher by the years spent smoking. 

“You’re a whore, you fuck anyone,” Matt exclaims, arms wide, “this is your job, ain’t it?” 

Peter sets his jaw. 

“My job was to get you into the Market,” Peter enunciates, “not to break your arms if you don’t give me my money _right fucking now_.” 

Matt writes him a check and Peter doesn’t throw him through any walls. 

 

///

 

At least it’s not raining, Peter thinks, as he stands in his bathroom and takes the coldest shower of the year. 

At least it’s not raining, Peter thinks, as he opens his fridge and sees one Arizona Green Tea and an empty carton of eggs. 

At least at least at least at least– 

“I can pay this time,” Peter says, sidling up to the counter at his only frequented Starbucks. 

Ellie pops her gum and looks him up and down. 

“That’s rude,” Peter admonishes but she doesn’t look contrite as she writes his usual down on a Venti cup. 

“Just wondering if you ever take the subway,” Ellie says and Peter follows her gaze to the newest hole in his shoes. 

“Subway costs money,” is all Peter says, rubbing his hands together and relishing in the heat of a well-ventilated building. 

“How long is your shift tonight?” Ellie asks, and Peter follows her lazily as she begins to make his drink. 

There aren’t a lot of people in here, and there’s a table open in the corner that Peter’s eyeing when the glass doors _slam_ open so hard his spider-sense flares in surprise. 

“Ellie Bellie Deli Yelli, what’s up my favorite pouty teenager?” 

Peter turns and almost cringes when he sees Wade striding in, arms wide and grin large. 

Under the fluorescents Peter can see his skin clearly, the scar tissue raised in a twisted geographical map across Wade’s strong features. It looks painful, and horribly burned, but then Peter remembers what Clint had told him about staring and quickly adverts his gaze. He doesn’t really want to talk to Wade, the guy rubs him the wrong way, and Peter’s not up for socializing. Maybe Wade didn't recognize him? 

Ellie looks like she wants to take a drill to her head and she crosses her arms as Wade comes skipping–literally _skipping_ –up to the counter. 

“What do you want?” she sighs, but Wade doesn’t seem put out, just leans over the counter with his hip cocked and chin in his palm. 

“Oh jeez, I didn’t think this far,” Wade admits wistfully and Peter’s slowly creeping to that corner table before Wade’s eyes dart to him, “what’s kicked puppy drinking?” 

_Don’t engage Parker, don’t engage_ – 

“It’s a mocha with triple espresso,” Ellie deadpans, not at all pleased to have Wade so close to her, _or_ within earshot, _or_ in the same building, “do you want that too?” 

Wade’s staring at Peter with an intensity that seems out of place in a Starbucks at 11pm on a Friday, and it’s making his spider sense tickle like insects scuttling down his back. 

“Yeah, sure, with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles.” 

“We don’t have–”

But Wade isn’t listening. 

Instead, he’s pushed himself up to his full height, and tosses Ellie twenty dollars without looking. All his focus is on Peter and it’s making the shorter man _very_ on edge. 

“What?” Peter snaps, and Wade’s grin only grows as he crosses his arms and leans against the counter. 

The guy is _massive_ , definitely fit for security detail, but there’s something about his movements that hint at a background of a specific training. There’s elegance and precision in the hard lines of his body that makes Peter doubt he’s only a bouncer. 

He’s itching to look the guy up. Fury always hires the weirdest people. Himself included. 

“You don’t look very dangerous to me,” Wade says, and Peter blinks. 

“Who says I’m dangerous?” he asks, feeling weirdly out of the loop. 

“You live close by here?” Wade distracts and Peter narrows his eyes and turns on his heel. 

So much for some time alone with his thoughts. 

“Have you eaten?” Wade calls after him, “recommend a place to me and I’ll buy you something! Ten dollar min, but no more than eleven thirty five, New York’s expensive as fuck.” 

“I have a shift in thirty,” Peter answers, ripping open the glass doors with maybe too much force, “and why the hell would I want to have dinner with you?” 

Wade’s still smiling and Peter wants to punch him. Again. 

“Let me get you something after,” Wade presses, “ _c’mon_ man, I just moved to this part of Brooklyn and its _so_ boring and Clint said you’re funny! Also you look like you want to hit me and that’s always _such_ a turn on.” 

The guy is ridiculous. And somehow charming in an aggressive, aggravating kind of way. 

“Got a date tonight,” Peter says, holding Wade’s gaze, “it’s a priority.” 

Wade looks genuinely put out. 

“ _Fuck_ , really? Are they hot? Do they _also_ look like they got trapped under a firebrick stove and got mistaken for a horribly burned pepperoni pizza? Do they respect you as a human being and the boundaries you set?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Ellie groans, slamming Wade’s drink down on the counter, “stop fucking flirting! I should’ve closed ten minutes ago.” 

Peter, alarmed, looks at Ellie in total confusion. This isn’t flirting. This is Wade being a dick and Peter getting him off his back. 

“Thanks Ripley!” Wade coos, patting Ellie’s head before swiping up the drink and stalking towards where Peter is standing, a little shocked, by the front doors. “I expect the rainbow sprinkles next time though!”

“This is a Starbucks, not an ice-cream shop, asshole!” Ellie shoots back and Wade’s cackle follows them even as the doors swing shut. 

Now Peter’s standing on the sidewalk with Wade and he has a shift in thirty minutes and he hasn’t eaten all day. 

(At least it’s not raining). 

“Sooo,” Wade begins, drawling out the words, “we’re going in the same direction.” 

“Yeah,” Peter sighs, taking a sip of his drink even if it’s too hot, “let’s go. Don’t talk about my ass.” 

Wade makes a show of bending back to very obviously check out Peter’s backside. 

Peter hits his arm and Wade jolts back, rubbing the spot tenderly. 

“Ow!” he whines, looking down at Peter with an impressed look, “That actually hurt.” 

“What do you mean “actually”?” Peter asks, beginning to lead them toward the Red Room, “I’m strong.” 

“Guess so,” Wade whistles, licking up the whipped cream on his drink, “you do hold yourself sideways on a metal pole for god knows how long every night, you’d have to be strong to do that. Or on steroids.” 

Peter side eyes him, the lights of the city and passing cars illuminating Wade’s scars in strobe detail. He has a strong jaw, a sharp nose, and Peter thinks he must’ve been really handsome, in a conventional way, before his injuries. Wade catches him staring. 

“Yeah, not very pretty, huh?” Wade asks, trying to laugh it off but it sounds strained, “Usually I wear a mask, but…” he holds up his drink. 

Peter’s immediately ashamed. 

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says, frantic in trying to reassure, “I’m sorry.” 

Wade shrugs, and sips his drink. 

“At least you’re not throwing up,” he hums.

“Who the fuck did that?” Peter asks, enraged for Wade. 

“People? Prostitutes, grocers, teenagers, that homeless guy on 6ave,” Wade doesn’t meet Peter’s eyes as he recounts his list, and Peter feels like an even bigger ass. 

“Fuck them,” Peter mutters into his drink, and he notices when Wade gives a deep, genuine laugh. 

“How long have you been working here?” Wade asks, and Peter and him stop a building down from the entrance to the Red Room. 

The line is curving down the sidewalk, and Peter isn’t surprised. It’s a Friday, and drinks are always half off on Friday’s. He can feel the bass vibrate on the concrete, the music muted but still so loud. Just looking at all these people is making him tired. 

“Six months,” Peter says, hunching up his shoulders when a particularly nasty gust of wind blows by, “soon to be seven.” 

“What happened to the last guy? Mike? Mark? Paul Blart?”

“Hank?”

Wade snaps, “Yeah, him.” 

“Dunno,” Peter answers, “something about a fight.” 

“Huh,” Wade hums, eyes perceptive even in the dark, “thought that was security’s job.” 

Peter gets the feeling that Wade isn’t just asking these questions to ask. There’s a purpose for each one. 

“Ask Clint,” Peter says, and checks his phone, “I gotta go to work.” 

“Want me to take notes? Give you feedback?” Wade asks as he follows Peter to the side door and into the first dark hallway that’ll lead them backstage. 

“You know, I think you just need to sit back and work on kicking people’s asses,” Peter says, stopping at the door that leads to the dressing rooms, “but if you really wanted to make me happy, I’d love some pizza during my break.” 

Wade’s eyebrows raise, and he reaches into his pocket to strap a clothed mask around the bottom half of his face. 

“Your date not going to take you out?” Wade asks. 

Peter knows what he’s doing, but he plays into it anyway. This is the only decent human interaction he’s had all week, and it didn't even start well. 

“I don’t think he’s the wine and dine type,” Peter says, opening the door, “more like wham bam, thank you ma’am, type.” 

Wade makes a face. 

“Want any toppings?” he asks, surprisingly gentle. 

Peter isn’t expecting that, or the softer tone, or the fact that Wade is actually serious about buying him food. The neon lights are flashing and making his head hurt already. He needs his suppressants. 

“Surprise me,” Peter says, “but no pineapple.” 

“Why the fuck would I put pineapple on pizza? Who do you think I am?” Wade asks. 

“That was a test.”

“I knew that… and?”

“You’re okay.” 

Peter closes the door but he can tell Wade’s smiling. 

 

///

 

The crowd is handsy tonight. 

And uproariously drunk. 

“You okay?” Domino asks him after Peter flips from the stage back behind the curtain. 

She hands him a bottle of water and he takes it, gratefully. 

“Thanks,” he breathes, wiping the sweat off his forehead and taking a big gulp. 

“That looked like it hurt,” Domino says, bending over the vanity to reapply some pink glitter to her fro, “I could hear it from here.” 

Peter winces, and rubs a tender hand over his thigh. 

“You know, I’ve had worse,” he says, and it’s not a lie. 

He’d take a hard slap to his ass over being thrown through a building any day. Domino winces in sympathy, towering over him in her six-inch platforms. 

“Is that one guy here?” she asks, and Peter kicks his own heels off and practically groans at the release. 

“I haven’t seen him since Wade threw him into the alley earlier this week,” Peter says, crouching down and grabbing his cleaner, not so sweaty, clothes from his backpack. 

Then he remembers. 

“Fuck I have to reserve a room,” he mutters, bending down to put the heels back on his sore feet. 

He really feels for the women who wear them every day. 

“Hurry before they’re all booked,” Domino says, turning to face him, “sweetie, you look like you’re going to fall over. You’re really seeing a client now?”

“It’s either that or get evicted for being late on rent again,” Peter says, shrugging and Domino nods, understanding but not liking it.

Peter doesn’t blame the sympathetic look she’s giving him. He knows he looks bad, he knows his dark circles have dark circles. The defeat must show because Domino ushers him to the vanity and sits him down. 

“I’ll make you look alive,” she tells him, reaching for some concealer, “but you have to stay still this time.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Peter sighs. 

“I know. Please stop moving.” 

 

///

 

Sunglasses is sitting at the bar and Peter takes a second behind the bend in the wall to breathe. 

He’s about to let this stranger pay him for sex and he doesn’t even know his name. Peter thought it’d get easier. He thought it’d become like any other job, where you fall into a robotic trance and go through the motions without feelings and emotions and a soul.

He didn’t think he’d still have crippling anxiety. _God_ , he wishes he could get drunk, but he doubts he has time to down three handles of vodka right now. 

Fuck. 

Okay. 

He can do this. 

He’s fought the worst of the worse. He’s stopped _buildings_ from falling, he can go and be intimate with a stranger at a bar and pretend that it’s his choice. 

He’s just picking someone up at a club. That’s all he’s doing. He’s having a one-night stand, and then he’ll pay rent, and have some leftover money for dinner sometime this upcoming week. 

Okay. 

Okay. 

Time to make a living. 

He struts out and feels a million sets of eyes on him. Not his face, but following the length of his legs and the shape of his thighs and the dip in his waist. Peter knows he can look attractive. That’s the big part of him being hired at one of the most sought after erotica clubs in Brooklyn.

He knows that he has a certain power in his movements, and he knows, that when he walks more with his hips and less with his shoulders, he’s graceful. 

Sunglasses looks up and Peter hates the greasy smile that’s on his face. 

Absolutely hates it. 

Almost as much as he hates the name “Sunglasses”. 

“What’s your name?” Peter asks, stepping up to the bar’s sticky counter and leaning against it. 

Sunglasses is looking him up and down, and he reaches out to touch but Peter grips his wrist, stopping him. 

“You haven’t paid me yet,” Peter reminds him, “so no touching.” 

The guy’s smile gets sharper. 

“Lead the way,” he says, and picks up his drink. Then, as an afterthought, “You want one?” 

Peter shakes his head. 

“I don’t drink on the job,” he says, and tries a smile of his own but even to him it feels forced. 

It must work on some level though, because Sunglasses downs the rest of his drink with hurried enthusiasm and pushes his stool into the man sitting next to him. 

“Hey, watch it,” the guy mutters but Peter’s grabbing Sunglasses’ hand and pulling him through the crowded floor of the club. 

Domino catches Peter’s eye from where she grinds on stage and shoots him a small wink before dropping low.

Peter clears his mind as he makes his way up the winding dark steps, red lights illuminating the hallway that reveals itself to them. It’s like walking into a cheap, no budget hell, every time. Logan, a short, burly guy, stands behind a podium and Peter walks past but Sunglasses is stopped when he tries to follow. 

“ID, bub,” Logan says, canines sharp under the horrible lighting. 

Peter leans up against door #4, the room he’d booked, and watches as Sunglasses fumbles with his wallet. He’s either nervous, or insanely turned on, and Peter doesn’t know which one makes him even more reluctant to spend two hours with him. 

“You’re a twitchy dude,” Logan observes, holding the guy’s ID up under a lamp, “take this.” 

Logan throws a key and Sunglasses catches it, easily, and Peter’s only a little disappointed.

“You guys got two hours,” Logan says, “we don’t do more than that. You’ll pay here.” 

His tone books no room for arguing. Sunglasses reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his checkbook. He writs the amount down, and then hesitates. 

“I’ll write the kid’s name,” Logan grumbles, “but yer missin’ a zero.” 

Peter’s never been more grateful to Logan in his _life_. Sunglasses fills out the rest, tears it, and passes it to Logan who folds it up and stuffs it into a safe under the podium’s surface. Logan meets Peter’s gaze, a shared agreement that if Peter needs anything, he’s there. 

“Let’s go,” Peter says, trying to get his voice a little breathier than usual as he watches Sunglasses step up to the door and unlock it with his newly acquired key. 

Peter walks in first, the room lit with more of those horrible red lights but it’s easier for Peter to see in here, without all the flashing neon distractions. The rooms aren’t soundproofed, but it’s quieter than the floor below. The door closes with a click and then they’re alone, with a small bed and no windows. 

Sunglasses doesn’t move any closer to Peter, and he doesn’t begin to remove any articles of clothing, but Peter knows he’s watching him, even behind the dark shades he’s always wearing. 

“How do you want me?” Peter asks, trying really hard not to fidget. 

Sunglasses steps deeper into the room, polished oxfords silent on the shag carpet. He takes off his sunglasses, and his face isn’t as interesting as Wade’s; just a white dude, with pale skin and beady eyes, who already looks like he busted a nut in his tented trousers. 

“On the bed,” the man instructs, and although he looks like he’s never done this before his voice doesn’t waver. 

It’s almost like his confidence is coming back, especially when Peter listens without rebuttal. He’s sitting so he’s holding himself up on his elbows, legs crossing at the ankles. He has two hours with this guy. He can try to enjoy himself, at the very least. 

“You never told me your name,” Peter reminds but the guy is still just staring at him, fully clothed, and Peter’s painstakingly aware of how the only thing he’s wearing is tight shorts and heels. 

“That’s not really important, is it?” the man asks. 

“Depends,” Peter replies, “you want me to scream another guy’s name while you’re in bed with me?” 

The man laughs, and Peter’s so hyper-aroused that even a low sound is like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Call me Alex,” he says, and Peter knows that isn’t his name but he’s not going to push it. 

Alex is better than Sunglasses. 

“Alex,” Peter repeats, “you going to join me?” 

The man moves to stand by Peter’s feet, and he moves Peter’s legs apart with his thigh, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trousers. Peter really wishes he were attracted to him. It’s always easier when he finds the clientele good looking, because right now Alex is hard and Peter’s never been softer. But he knows how to fake it, and most guys who top don’t try to get Peter off at all, so it works out. 

Peter has a feeling, as Alex stares down at him, that the case might be different tonight. 

“You’re strong,” Alex says and Peter blinks, not expecting that. 

“Thanks,” he replies, rubbing his foot up along Alex’s thigh, “you’re not so bad yourself.” 

Alex doesn’t take notice of Peter’s attempt at seduction. Instead, he steps closer, so that he’s standing between Peter’s knees and seeming all the more imposing. Peter’s spider sense is rippling in his head, as it often does when Peter withstands a situation that’s not entirely comfortable. 

He just needs to remind himself that he could break this guy with his pinky, if it comes to that. Through the walls, moans filter through and mix in with the red lighting to create a bizarre erotic space, surreal in its removal from the outside world. 

Peter’s never had to wait this long for a client to make a move. But maybe Alex is all talk and needs Peter to act first? So he does, rising up without any effort he lets his hands play lightly over Alex’s belt buckle. 

“Do you want me to get you off?” Peter asks, really trying to work the breathy voice angle. 

“I’ve been watching you for a long time,” Alex says, after an uncomfortable amount of time has lapsed, “and there’s something I’ve been trying to figure out.” 

Peter’s spider sense is sharp in its warning. 

“Dude, your dirty talk kind of sucks,” Peter says, letting his foot fall because this guy is really weird and if him being coy isn’t doing it for him maybe Alex likes it when Peter’s snarky?

He can do snarky. 

Alex reaches down and runs his calloused hands over Peter’s shins, resting them on Peter’s muscular thighs so that he’s leaning over him, just a bit. Peter would much prefer the “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” approach to this strange… whatever the _fuck this is_. 

Alex squeezes and Peter keeps an eye on his face, trying to understand what this guy’s after. He had made it seem like he wanted sex, a full two hours of fucking Peter into this shitty mattress like an overeager fanboy, but that’s not what this feels like. This feels like an interrogation.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the mutant ban,” Alex says, his grip on Peter’s legs tightening, and if Peter didn’t have a great healing factor he’d definitely bruise, “and how all illegals must be round up and reported?” 

Peter’s heart starts hammering, desperate and trapped, against his ribs. 

He feels panicked, and ensnared, and he isn’t sure why. Alex isn’t a physical threat. He doesn’t know anything. Peter hasn’t slipped up and shot a web. He hasn’t displayed superhuman strength. He hasn’t done anything to give himself away. 

What he _needs_ to do is calm down, or he’ll start to look suspicious.

Maybe Alex is a mutant hater? Maybe this is what gets him off?

Alex leans forward and kisses the side of Peter’s neck, gentle, before biting down with enough force to have Peter _jolting_. 

“Fuck!” Peter hisses, bracing Alex’s shoulders and pushing him back, very careful not to exert too much force behind the act. 

Alex wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Peter reaches up, wincing at the teeth indents and the sting of blood welling up on the side of his neck. 

“No blood play,” Peter snaps, “the hell?” 

“You heal awfully fast,” Alex muses and Peter freezes, every muscle in his body going tight. 

“What?” he croaks and Alex steps back, straightening his tie and running a careful hand down the front of his jacket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. 

“Well, normally, marks like that would last three, maybe four days,” Alex says but Peter’s having a hard time hearing him over the thudding of his heart, “you’ve barely bruised.” 

_C’mon Parker, think on your feet, you can do this, play off stereotypes,_ lie–

“If I was a mutant that wouldn’t hurt me,” Peter says, making a show of rubbing the bite and grimacing, “it’s dark as hell in here, you can’t see anything. I can barely see you.” 

Alex sighs, and he would look intimidating if he weren’t still hard. 

Peter feels sick. 

“I’m not saying you’re a mutant,” Alex says, “I just said you heal fast.” 

Peter doesn’t know what to do. Does he call security? Does he keep this going? Can he keep this going for two hours? After all this back and forth? 

“Suck me off,” Alex says, like it’s an afterthought, hands unzipping his trousers, “I’m tired of talking.” 

 

///

 

Two hours is a long time. 

Peter hadn’t realized how long two hours was until tonight. 

They didn’t fuck the whole time, of course, Alex was human and didn’t have the best stamina, but at least he didn’t care about Peter cumming because there’s no way Peter would have been able to get there. 

They didn’t talk, and Peter was fine with that too. Alex bit his neck some more, not hard but obsessive, and Peter found himself relieved to suck the guy off in between rounds because at least he couldn’t get his teeth on Peter’s skin. 

Logan pounding on the door signaled their time was ten minutes until being up, and Alex pulls out and cums across Peter’s back and the bedspread, almost uncaring of where his seed lands. 

He dresses with a precision that’s drilled into a person, retrieving his sunglasses and tucking them into his breast pocket. Peter uses the sheets to clean himself off; there isn’t a bathroom on this floor, although there should be. 

“I had a great time,” Alex says and Peter’s tongue is bitter and heavy, “did you?” 

Peter hates when clients ask that. Of _course_ he didn’t have a good time, you lousy, pathetic, _worthless piece of_ –

“Yeah,” Peter tells him, “it was fun.” 

Alex knows that Peter’s lying, but it doesn’t keep the smug grin off his thin lips. Maybe that’s why he’s smiling. He walks forward, takes Peter’s chin and maneuvers his head so that he can examine his neck. 

“Interesting,” is all Alex says before dropping forty dollars onto the side table and leaving without looking back. 

 

/// 

 

Peter limps down the dark stairs and through the red halls in a daze. 

He wants to melt into the floor. He can’t feel his body; his head is stuffed full with cotton. It’s like he’s made out of ash, feelings are muted and blurred, and nothing is heavy or grounding his body to his mind. It’s like something of his was stolen, like a part of himself is dirty and wrong and shameful, and the lock it was safe under has been cracked open. He is nothing. 

He is air– voided and closed, and waiting to crumble.

A broken heart is sour, didn’t you know? 

 

///

 

Only Clint is left in the bar, with some of the dancers drinking lazily under the now florescent lights. 

_3am is the worst_ , Peter thinks, as he splashes water on his face in the bathroom, and burns the taste of semen out of his mouth with vodka.

He’s tying his sneakers when there’s a knock and Wade sticks his head into an empty backstage. Peter’s too tired to say anything, so he just lifts his hand in a lazy wave. 

Wade approaches, looking smaller than normal, like he’s trying not to take up space. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything, just places a large pizza box by Peter’s feet. Peter blinks at it, and it takes a moment for his brain to process what it is. 

He’s so hungry; he’d forgotten what hunger was. 

“You got me a pizza,” he says, words spilling like molasses without his approval. 

“Yeah,” Wade whispers, and even his voice is quieter than usual, “extra pineapple.” 

Wade turns to leave. 

“Wait,” Peter calls, and Wade does. “Will you help me eat it? I want quiet right now, so I’m not going to talk, but…I mean, do you want some?” 

Wade’s looking at Peter like he knows what just happened, like he knows that Peter let some man fuck him and bite him and twist his senses all wrong, and Peter should feel ashamed– he should– but he doesn’t.

He just feels tired. 

Wade walks over and takes a seat next to Peter on one of the metal folding chairs. They eat in relative silence, and Peter’s finally able to bask in quiet. Their shoulders are almost touching, and it’s a suggestion of physical comfort that makes Peter relax. 

“You know,” Wade says, speaking for the first time in fifteen minutes and three slices in, “my ex used to strip.” 

Peter chews and can’t taste, but he can listen to Wade and it’s grounding him, to have something else to focus on. Maybe Wade knows this. Maybe that’s why he’s being so soft and making himself so small. 

“She would get like this too,” Wade whispers, picking at his crust with blunt nails, “get all quiet and, I dunno, not there. I ain’t gonna sit here and try to say I get it, ‘cause I don’t, but I will say this: if you ever need me to rip someone’s genitals off and give Shrek a run for his money on worst possible dinner ingredients, let me know.” 

Peter takes the reassurance for what it is: support. 

“Thanks,” is all he says. 

The pizza doesn’t have any pineapple, and Wade did get extra pepperoni.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow guys thanks so so so much for all the support!!! love ya! :*
> 
> tumblr is dabblingwithdaisies if ya ever wanna chat


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter's still tired.

MJ is stretched out across his bed, hair piled in a messy pineapple on her head as she flicks through her phone.

Peter’s hunkered over his desk, fiddling with some old Stark Tech he’d found in a scrap yard near Red Hook. 

It still hurts, to see the Stark logo, but Peter’s scraped it off and painted it over and now he can pretend he’s just taking apart an old gun to find parts for a new web shooter. There’s still hollowness in his arms when he remembers Tony, when he remembers the news and the panic and that first wave of horrible realization: heroes are being targeted. 

“Did you hear that Harry’s back in the City?” MJ asks, and Peter can feel her eyes on him so he doesn’t turn around. 

“No,” Peter grumbles, delicately lifting up a metal plate with tweezers, “why?” 

“A benefit for Norman,” MJ is saying but Peter’s barely listening, too focus on how Tony managed to weave these two wires without them sparking against each other under the heat of the blaster– “he messaged me yesterday.” 

“Good thing we can all still text each other,” Peter sighs, flinching when he pinches himself on a space part. 

“You never did tell me what happened with you guys,” MJ says, “he moved senior year and then we graduated and that was that.” 

“I did tell you what happened,” Peter sighs, running a hand over his face, “he’s a dick.” 

“We all knew that,” MJ replies, “but we were friends with him anyway.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this, MJ,” Peter admits, turning in his seat to meet her dark gaze, “do we _have_ to do this right now?” 

He hates when she looks at him like this: like she can see through him, to his core, to his bones, and know every lie he’s ever told. 

“You look tired,” she says after a lapse of silence, “late nights?” 

“I thought you wanted to come over and relax,” Peter yawns, “and take a break from your usual interrogation of my life.” 

She’s still staring, eyes slightly squinted so Peter’s aware that she doesn’t want to drop the topic, that she knows he’s hiding something, but that she’ll relent to keep the peace. 

“Fine,” she shrugs, “lets get Chinese.” 

At Peter’s hesitation she gives him a soft smile, “Relax, I’ll buy.” 

 

///

 

Wade’s sitting at the far end of the bar when Peter approaches from the changing rooms backstage.

Peter almost doesn’t recognize Wade at first; the guy isn’t wearing anything to cover his face, or his security uniform. Instead he’s in a dark grey hoodie with the hood pulled low over his head, and black sweats that still manage to hug his thighs. 

“You look like every other pervert here,” Peter notes as he squeezes into the empty stool next to Wade, and he can feel the woman beside look him up and down, “hood up and everything.” 

Wade seems to reanimate when he notices Peter, eyes brightening and pensive frown lines fading to make way for a sharp grin.

“Hey Petey!” he exclaims, voice as deep as the bass, “fancy seeing you here.” 

“I know, surprising,” Peter smiles, trying to flag down Clint for a drink, “who would expect a stripper in a strip club?” 

“My eyes out for the accountants,” Wade agrees, reaching over the counter and snagging a bottle of whiskey as Clint watches, completely unimpressed, “wanna go someplace quiet? With less used condoms and almost no frat boys?”

“Keep talking dirty,” Peter grins, hoping off the stool and signing ‘thank you, sorry’ to Clint, “gonna make me all weak in the knees.” 

Wade lets out a laugh that’s unfortunately drowned out by the music, but Peter can feel him close behind as they push through the crowded dance floor. 

Peter isn’t sure when talking with Wade became a normal part of his routine, only that it did. The guy isn’t as bad as the first impression set for him. He’s loud, yes, and rude and can be really inappropriate, but he’s also caring and sensitive and somehow shares Peter’s dumbass humor. 

Peter likes the balance they’ve struck together. Ever since Wade brought him that pizza he decided to try and get to know the guy, because while he definitely has some shit going on so does Peter, and loneliness is crushing. 

They’ve reached the back door, and Peter’s about to reach for it when his spider sense gives him a shake and he’s looking instinctively to his left. Sunglasses, or Alex, are standing against the wall, a drink in his hand to make him seem less like a strange man lurking in the shadows and more of a patron who wanted to get away from the noise. 

It would be convincing, if he didn’t give Peter the absolute creeps and if he wasn’t positioned outside of Peter’s favorite changing room door. 

Wade’s stopped because Peter did, and it’s kind of nice for someone to have his back– literally. Being Spider-Man was a one-team show, and being a dancer and occasional prostitute is a similar line of code. Peter’s not used to having a constant with him in either of those two aspects of his life, but feeling Wade’s tall, imposing frame behind him is a confidence boost. 

_Especially_ when Alex realizes that Wade is a full head taller than him. 

“Are you waiting for me?” Peter asks, and Alex’s eyes are covered by those dumb sunglasses but Peter can feel his gaze on him. 

He can also remember how sharp Alex’s teeth are, and how being with him felt like a punishment. Wade could be mistaken for a column, he hasn’t moved an inch, and Peter’s reminded of how lions hunt, of how they crouch low in the grass and wait. 

“I wanted to offer you another proposition,” Alex says, the glass in his cup clipping against the sides and since Peter’s suppressants are weaning the noise is like a nail to his ear, “same amount as last time?”

He needs to get out of here. 

“I’m off the clock,” Peter tells him, moving to step to the door, “we can talk another time when you haven’t been stalking the Employees Only lounge.” 

Alex leans forward with the intention to grab Peter’s shoulder, but Wade’s hand shoots out and grips Alex’s arm, tight. Alex’s suit bunches under Wade’s grip, and it’s pulling his collar haphazardly to the side. It’s enough of a shock that Alex spills his drink. 

“Rethink touching him,” Wade commands, and even if his tone carries its usual chipper cadence Peter can feel how tense Wade is, wound tight and ready to snap, like he’d been ready to hold Alex back. 

Alex raises his hands, placating, trying for sly but his skewed collar messes up the image. 

“I didn’t mean any offense,” Alex says, and wisely takes a step back. “I see your neck is fine.” 

Fear is sharp on Peter’s tongue and his spider sense mimics its panic. Alex nods to him and Wade before brushing past them and mixing in with the strobe lights and pulsing crowd. All the lightheartedness Peter had been feeling evaporates like condensation on a chilled bottle, and he’s struck with the instinct to follow Alex. 

Wade takes Peter’s wrist, gentle and not at all demanding, so Peter let’s Wade pull him from the elevating noise of the club and out into the bitter cold of February in New York. The heavy metal door swings shut with a god-awful yawn. He turns because Wade is still a vibrating line of tension against the door, and when he meets Peter’s gaze there’s a light in the dark, the cold second place to how Wade is regarding him. 

He’s angry. 

Not at Peter, Peter knows this, but at what just transpired. 

“Did he hurt you?” Wade asks, tone devoid of any emotion that would give his intentions away. 

Peter’s throat is dry, from dehydration and dread, so his voice is rough when he answers. 

“Hurt me? No, he didn’t hurt me.” 

Wade nods, a sharp jerk, before he’s unscrewing the cap off the bottle and downing half the whiskey in a few heaving gulps.

He doesn’t seem to feel the burn of it, doesn’t even seem to be chasing influence. Wade’s drinking to have something to do with his hands, with all the energy and adrenaline buzzing under his skin, and Peter knows this because he’s feeling the same way. 

“Why did he say that about your neck?” Wade asks, and then backtracks when Peter falters, “Nevermind. You don’t have to tell me anything. I just…I fucking hate guys like that. Looks like one of the extras in SVU.” 

Peter scoffs a laugh; his spider sense calming when it’s apparent Wade isn’t about to pose a second threat. Peter wouldn’t mind telling Wade about Alex’s weird obsession with mutants, or how he bit Peter hard enough to draw blood as some non-consenting science experiment with a controlled variable, but he doesn’t trust Wade like that. 

Wade’s smart. Wade’s been asking questions about the Red Room as an establishment. He’s perceptive; his eyes alone are sharper than half the people inside the club. Peter doesn’t know what strings Wade will connect if he tells him what transpired with Alex. 

He doesn’t know Wade’s stance on mutant bans or the camps or anything. And he isn’t going to risk his life in an alley because he had an asshole client and no one to talk to about it. 

Wordlessly, he holds out his hand and Wade passes him the whiskey. It’s smoky, with a tinge of honey, and Peter’s grateful to Wade for snagging the good shit. 

“He has an oral fixation,” Peter tells Wade, because he feels like he needs to say something or it’ll become more convoluted and suspicious in the long run, “just bit me too hard on the neck.” 

Wade’s jaw ticks and he watches Peter with heat in his eyes as Peter takes another long pull. 

“Look, I can take care of myself, okay? Really, this isn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before.” 

Wade considers this, a shadow passing across his features, the still quiet of sticky humidity before a storm. But the thunder never comes; the lighting doesn’t strike Peter where he stands. Instead, a gentle rain that’s meant to comfort. 

“Doesn’t mean it gets easier,” Wade says, words a soft patter on the alley’s bricks, “or that you have to do it alone. Just like you shouldn’t try to assemble an Ikea baby crib by yourself because the reality is you’ll use up all the duct tape you’ve ever owned and you don’t have a baby.” 

Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that analogy, but he gets the jist. Wade looks so earnest, and the argument Peter had been anticipating never touched down, just rolled off into the night sky like smoke. 

He hears the club doors open up front, a cacophony of drunken laughter and deep bass spilling out onto the concrete like an oil spill. Peter’s struck with the desire to follow Alex. How long has it been since he’s done recon? Abruptly, it’s all he wants to be doing, his fingers remembering the feel of brick, of the wind rushing past him. He can’t go as Spider-Man, in fear of being seen. He has to go as Peter, and if he’s going to leave he needs to make a sudden exit look natural. 

“What time is it?” Peter asks, handing Wade back the bottle. 

Wade pulls out a flip phone and checks. 

“Almost one,” he says, “hey, are you sure–”

“Shit! One? Fuck, I forgot I’m meeting a friend, I’m sorry I gotta run,” Peter interrupts, making his way to the mouth of the alley. 

Wade looks a little taken aback, standing there with alcohol in one hand and an old red flip Razor in the other. 

“You want me to walk with you? I’m off tonight,” Wade offers but there’s something else under his tone, something prying that Peter doesn’t like directed his way. 

“No, I’m fine, really. I’ll see you later.” 

He turns and walks swiftly through the alley, feeling Wade watching him depart but not looking back to confirm. This takes precedence. Peter walks a few blocks, making sure that Wade isn’t following him, and ducks into another alley.

He’s thankful that this row of apartments done have windows along the sides, so he kicks off his shoes and socks, sticks them in his back pack, and begins to climb. 

Being able to climb a wall again, even if it’s gritty sharp, humid and damp, is a feeling that Peter can only describe as coming home after a long day and getting under recently dried sheets. He’s trying not to get emotional as he scales the building effortlessly. 

A part of him had been afraid he’d lost his touch, that if he didn’t exercise his abilities often they’d slowly disappear. He had forgotten how much of his identity was Spider-Man, was his abilities. 

He feels like he’s coming home, and he wishes he could tell Aunt May about this. Wishes he could call Tony and–

No. 

He needs to focus, not fall down _that_ rabbit hole. 

Squinting, he tries to see if the man walking down the block is Alex. 

The street lamps don’t offer much light. If Alex wasn’t still wearing his sunglasses, Peter probably wouldn’t have found him, but they catch and reflect the light from the dingy bulbs above, and Peter follows. 

Alex hasn’t called a cab, which Peter finds strange. A man who parades himself as rich and expectant would usually get a ride from the entrance of the club, not walk a few blocks down and wait. 

_Why_ is he waiting? Peter leaps between the last two buildings so that he’s perched directly above where Alex is on his phone. 

The street is empty, and the noise of the club is background static. Alex’s phone vibrates, and he answers. 

“Speaking,” he says, and stands perfectly still as he listens to the other voice on the end of the line. 

“No, no not tonight,” Alex sighs, and he actually sounds disappointed, “yes, sir. I’ll go back Monday, and I can come by the office–”

Alex stops talking, interrupted, and Peter balances precariously on the ledge of the building’s roof, straining his ears to pick up the other voice. 

It’s male, Peter can tell that much. Male, irritated, and not familiar, and if Peter had to guess, by the inflection of the faceless man’s tone and the way Alex has gone freakishly still, it’s that Alex fucked up. Alex didn’t get something right. 

The only thing Peter can think is: “what does he do for a living?” 

Peter’s fingers flex on the brick under him, and Alex is saying a litany of “yes, of course, right away,” before hanging up and taking a deep breath. Then Alex is dialing another number, which Peter catches: 212-948-6378. 

Good, he has that to go off of at least. 

The next call is with Alex in control. 

“I’m here, waiting,” Alex says, checking the time on his Rolex, “see you in five.” 

Peter dips back onto the roof, crouching and letting himself think. 

First, he’ll call the number. It’s a good place to start. It's the only place to start.

He peeks back over the edge just as a large black SUV pulls up and Alex gets inside. The license plate is unmarked, and the car speeds down the street, tires screeching until it’s well out of sight. Adrenaline is still pulsing in Peter’s veins, and he’s itching to patrol, to keep this night going– _something_. 

He’s stayed away from anything super related because he knew he’d get like this. He knew he’d start to regret leaving, knew he’d start feeling resentment bubbling in his chest. 

Resentment at the government, at the world, at the unfairness of it all, and he hates feeling like this because there’s nowhere for him to store it. He doesn’t have any kind of outlet. He wants to scream. He wants to be able to shoot a web and not have to worry about someone shooting a gun. 

He gets it. 

He’s a white man; he’s never had to be this paranoid before. He’s never had to worry about sexual assault in a workplace, he’s never had to be hypervigilant walking down the street, saying too much of himself, not trusting the police not trusting anyone and _now_ –

Now.

Now now now now now he feels like a rope flayed thin. He feels like all the ends are tangled and knotted and sticking up every which way and there’s only one small thread linking them all but it’s not strong enough to hold every piece of him. He’s not strong enough to contain everything. He’s not strong enough for this. He wishes he could break down his own walls and let someone in.

He wishes he could be honest with MJ about what he does at night. He wishes he didn’t feel the humiliation and shame of not being able to afford dinner with his friends. 

His thoughts are spiraling at a pace he can’t keep up with and he can’t even see his own hands in front of him. He can’t feel anything except the hot, coiling anxiety in his chest. It’s all consuming, it’s all he is. The ringing in his ears, the thrumming of his heart, it’s all anxious nerves and live wires and broken things that are waiting to cut him. 

He should’ve known this was a bad idea. 

A silver glint in the dark and then his spider-sense is zinging. Peter turns to see the silhouette of someone disappear a few buildings away, ink dipping behind a tumbler of smoke. Peter doesn’t hesitate, propelling himself down the other side of the roof and into the alley below. 

He runs. 

If that person has a gun, or poses enough of a threat for Peter’s spider-sense to warn him about it, then he’s not messing with that, _especially_ without a mask. He zig zags between twenty deserted blocks, and hides out in the alleys to pass time. He’s not going to risk someone following him to his apartment, and finding out where he lives. 

That night Peter doesn’t sleep. He keeps his eyes trained to the window, waiting to see a flash of silver and a body ducking behind a roof. 

 

///

 

Wade finds him before his shift the next night. 

Peter’s lounging at the Starbucks, head in his hands, eyes drooping like lead from exhaustion. 

He feels like hell. Literal, actual hell.

It never goes well for him when he doesn’t sleep, especially with his heightened _everything_. Being a person _and_ functioning is a hundred times more difficult for Peter. 

He should get an award for even crawling out of bed. 

“Baby, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look worse than I do on a good day,” Wade’s voice lulls him out of the fog that’s rested delicate over his mind and Peter can barely lift his head to acknowledge Wade sitting next to him. 

“How _am_ I supposed to take that?” Peter grumbles, sipping lazily at his mocha. 

“Ooh, he has claws when he’s grumpy,” Wade coos, shifting so that he’s putting himself into Peter’s view, “tell me, what’ve you eaten in the past fifty five hours?” 

“Don’t make me answer that,” Peter pleads, burying his face in his hands and somehow not jumping when Wade’s fingers suddenly card through his hair. 

“Aw, look at you, passing out in a public establishment.” 

“If you keep that up I really _will_ pass out,” Peter says but his words are spoken into the fabric of his shirt and gets jumbled in the stitches. 

“Hmm, do you _have_ to dance tonight?” Wade asks gently, shifting on the metal stool but not detangling his fingers from massaging Peter’s scalp. 

Peter leans into his touch, just a little. It’s helping with the headache he’s been carrying all day. He would’ve taken his suppressants, but he’s down to two and needs to ration. He _really_ should find his dealer but he’s had no time, let alone energy.

A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him to see if Wade knows where he can get some for cheap tonight, but his more rational brain is telling him to shut up and sleep with someone so he can afford a refill without maybe exposing himself as a mutant. 

Stripping alone doesn’t pay any bills. 

It buys him coffee sometimes and metro tickets less. For Peter to even consider tackling rent he needs to put out. 

Fuck he’s tired. 

He’s disgusted with himself for wanting Alex to be there. 

Wade’s still petting his head and Peter hadn’t realized he’s been drooling until he lifts his head and blinks the blur from his eyes. 

Wade laughs, and Peter wipes the saliva away. 

“I gotta pay rent,” Peter answers, turning his head so that he can actually look at Wade, “I’m running low on funds.” 

Wade looks thoughtful, gaze hard and considering. He knows what Peter means. He has to, if his ex stripped. 

“Let me buy you dinner, after,” Wade tells him, “last time you kind of ran away.” 

Peter wants to argue, he _wants_ to decline, because he hates people pitying him and he hates being remind that he can’t take care of himself, or buy his own dinner. But he’s hungry, and tired, and Wade’s offering. 

He nods. 

Wade smiles, and it’s worth it. 

 

///

 

Peter finds a nice woman who pays for thirty minutes. 

Another pays for an hour. 

A man who doesn't take off his snapback the entire time pays for a blowjob. 

Peter gets changed feeling dirty and dried in sweat. He meets Wade at the back entrance, and talks with him until Wade's shift is up. They fall into step and without discussing it end up at a taco joint two blocks down, between a laundry mat and hair salon. 

Wade orders one of everything and doesn't even let Peter see the bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the phone number i made up!! just so everyone knows.

**Author's Note:**

> hey ya'll! idk i've been wanting to write a gritty, dystopian superhero/government conspiracy plot heavy fic for a while so here we go. if you guys like it i'll continue!


End file.
